The Highwayman: A Longmire Story (Walt Longmire #11.5)(20)
She stood there looking at me but saying nothing as the wisps of fog tangled around our boots.
“You need assistance. I think that’s what this is all about—you need help.”
She yanked her head toward the river and started to say something, but I cut her off. “Rosey, everybody needs a little help once in a while, but I don’t think you’re capable of asking outright, so you came up with somebody else to do it for you. Bobby Womack.”
She looked down at her boots and bit her lip. “So, you do think I’m crazy.”
“No, I don’t. Haven’t I been clear about that?”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I think you’re mistaken.”
“Mistaken.”
I dipped my head, trying to catch her eyes underneath our combined brims. “It happens; we’re not perfect.” I glanced toward the vehicles and could see the Cheyenne Nation, giving us plenty of space, patiently waiting by my truck.
“So, does he think I’m crazy, too?”
I turned back to her. “Hold on just a minute. I’ll let him head back to the motel with my truck and then you and I can talk.” Not waiting for a response, I limped over and handed the Bear my thermos and keys.
“What is up?”
“This is probably going to take longer than you’re going to want to stand out here for, so why don’t you head back to the motel, and I’ll catch a ride with her to Thermopolis?”
He stashed the thermos in the Bullet. “Tomorrow morning?”
I glanced back—Rosey hadn’t moved. “Yep, it’ll take that long, at least.”
“I will stick around a little while, maybe head over to the tunnels and see what I can see.” Without waiting for a response, he turned, the duster trailing after him like monstrous bat wings as he walked past the cruiser and down the road toward the cavelike entrance. “Hang on to that silver dollar—it might be good luck.”
“Two times over.” I looked back and could see that Rosey, listening to the invisible river, had stepped across the guardrail and was sitting on the cold metal. “Hey, you’re going to freeze your ass off.” I crossed and sat beside her, facing the other way with my hat in my hands. “So, what do you want to do?”
She kept watching the fogged-over landscape. “I want to keep being a highway patrolman.”
“Who says you can’t?”
“Oh, Walt. They don’t like crazy people with guns.”
“You’re not crazy.”
She smiled a sad smile. “I used to think I wasn’t, too.” She stood and took a few steps onto the worn rock of the promontory that jutted out into the void. “You know, I’ve been an HP my whole life—I don’t think I know how to be anything else.”
“Nobody says you’re going to have to.”
Her back was still to me when she spoke again. “What would you do if they told you that you couldn’t be a sheriff anymore?”
“Probably dance a jig.” I stepped forward, pressing my legs against the guardrail and holding out a hand. “Hey, it’s getting really cold out here. Why don’t we climb back in that snazzy car of yours and drink the rest of my coffee and talk things over?”
Her head turned just a bit, and her perfect Nordic profile was set off by the whiteness of the fog, her flat-brimmed hat dipping at a dangerous angle. “You’ve been a good friend, Walt, and so has Henry.”
I started to climb over the guardrail. “Rosey . . .”
And then she stepped off the edge.
7
I stumbled forward, fell over the guardrail, and landed on my hands. I scrambled to my feet and looked into the impenetrable mist. My first thought was to jump after her, but the Bear was a far better swimmer than I was. “Henry!”
No answer. I stood there for a second more and then shucked off my jacket and tossed my hat, sidearm, and pocket watch along with it. Taking one step forward, I shook my head at the absolute insanity of what I was about to do—and leaped.
There was a brief moment of weightlessness, but then all 250 pounds brought their weight to bear and down I went. Heck, for all I knew, there wasn’t any water below me, and I was just jumping onto the rocks along with an already-dead trooper. I didn’t have to wonder long, however, as I plunged into the Wind River and it seemed as though the 640 muscles in my body contracted to the point of breaking all 206 bones.
The shock of the cold paralyzed me for a moment, and there was an explosion in my chest that caused every bit of air to go out of my lungs, and all I could think was that I had made a very bad decision.
I broke the surface and gasped my way free. The current was unlike anything I’d ever felt, and I’d no sooner gathered a couple of lungfuls of air when the flat of my back struck a boulder and pushed all of it out.
Sputtering, I tried to grab hold of the rock, but its wet surface slipped through my hands and I was shot through a funnel and submerged again. This time my leg struck something solid as the current plowed me forward. I’d heard Henry say that you always wanted to keep your feet up and pointed toward the current so that they wouldn’t get caught and you wouldn’t drown.
Lifting them, I bobbed to the surface just in time to strike another boulder, but not hard enough to completely disorient me. It was black dark, and the only thing that showed was the phosphorescence of the wave tops being cut by the wind.